


Balance

by niteblood



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M, also mentions murphy’s hanging obv, idk what qualifies as graphic but if you’ve seen 4x11 you know what i mean, no beta we die like men, probably extremely ooc, tw mentions of self-harm??????
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-02
Updated: 2019-08-02
Packaged: 2020-07-29 05:37:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20077030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/niteblood/pseuds/niteblood
Summary: He meets his eyes then. The words wrap themselves around his neck, and Murphy wonders briefly if being hung a second time would hurt worse than the first.He’s teetering on the edge. Can feel the crate shifting beneath his feet all over again.Or,A different take on Bellamy and Murphy’s interactions in 4x11.





	Balance

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this at 3am

“I’ll relieve you of your duty in six hours,” Clarke says before pressing the keys into the palm of his hand, cold metal against warm skin.

She doesn’t leave much room for debate, turning on her heel and pacing back down the hall, a poorly masked expression of pain in tow.

Murphy can’t say he blames her.

Bellamy’s muffled yells echo down the corridor after her retreating form. Murphy feels them cling to his skin, threatening to sink beneath his bones and slither their way through the cracks of the wall in his mind.

He rolls the keys between his fingers once, twice, a third time, before forcing himself forward towards the large metal door.

His hands feel clammy. He shifts his weight from one foot to another. If it wasn’t for the sudden tightness in his throat, he might’ve laughed. This was stupid.

_So, so stupid._

He’s known Bellamy for years, tried to kill the man once, and now he can barely bring himself to even speak to him.

_It’s just Bellamy,_ a helpful voice in the back of his mind provides, unhelpfully.

_Yeah, well, that’s just the problem, isn’t it? _ The other responds, snarky in tone.

A particularly loud cry reverberates against the walls around him, shaking him from his inner turmoil.

The key no longer cools his palm.

He takes a breath, and then another one, steadying himself.

The click of the lock rings loud and clear. His footsteps even louder.

—

“What the hell are you  _doing__,_ Bellamy?” Murphy hears himself shout. It’s instinctual, the pained noises coming from his slumped frame forces Murphy’s mind into autopilot.

The ties binding him cut into the flesh of Bellamy’s wrists, bloody and torn from the constant tug-o’-war between the chain and himself.

“Murphy,” He says, so soft and full of relief that his resolve nearly crumbles right then and there.

“Murphy,” He repeats, just as soft, turning to stand and face him.

Murphy relents. The sharp and jagged-bitten ends of his fingernails dig uncomfortably into his palms.

“You’re just hurting yourself, don’t make me call medical to knock your ass out,” it’s meant to be sharp, his typical tongue-in-cheek, but his voice is strained, the tightness in his throat almost choking now.

A beat. Two. Murphy can’t bring himself to look him in the eye.

The mere seconds of silence stretching between them feels like hours.

“Untie me, Murphy,” Bellamy pleads after what could only be an eternity, raising his bound wrists towards him.

Murphy focuses on that instead. He swallows past the lump in his throat.

“You know I can’t do that.”

It’s barely a whisper to his own ears, the  _thump thump thump_ of his own heart pulsing blood through his ears is deafening. He wonders absently if Bellamy even heard him.

He yanks hard on the chain then, lurching forward toward Murphy before the chain snaps him back.

He flinches, but his feet remain planted firm on the cement floor. Guess that answers that question, then.

“You’re a coward,” Bellamy clips, anger seeping through. It almost masks the pain in his voice. Almost.

Murphy hears it anyway. Something sinks, deep in his gut.

Exhaustion tugs at his bones. He can taste the words on his tongue, feel them materializing in the air around him before they even come out of Bellamy’s mouth.

“You don’t care about anyone but yourself.”

He meets his eyes then. The words wrap themselves around his neck, and Murphy wonders briefly if being hung a second time would hurt worse than the first.

He’s teetering on the edge. Can feel the crate shifting beneath his feet all over again.

_Please, Bellamy, it wasn’t me, it wasn’t, you have to believe me, please, please, believe me, please—_

“You’re wrong,” is what he manages. He can feel the wet, copper-like substance settle in his fists through crescent-shaped indents.

“Then let me go,” he tries, desperate, begging, tension draining momentarily, voice rough from screaming and yet honey-smooth all the same.

_ “John—“_

“It’ll only be for a few days,” Murphy says, cuts him off, but it sounds weak even to his own ears.

Bellamy can’t  _do_ that. Not now. Not like this.

The sudden crack of the chain, followed closely by the shout that rips through him is expected.

The muscles in Murphy’s neck jump anyway, fight or flight response kicking in.

_Must feel like a lot like whiplash, _ Murphy supposes.

He almost expects the chain to break beneath the force. Part of him wishes it would.

“She’ll be dead in a few days!” It’s a snarl, and every ounce of pain once detected evaporates into thin air, just like that. There’s nothing but hate resting there now, sizzling just beneath the surface.

Murphy recognizes the look.

The crate wobbles.

“Yeah,” Murphy whispers. A beat.

And then,

“I’m sorry.”

And he is. Gut-wrenchingly, terrifyingly sorry.

The full-body ache that rocks through him is almost enough. Almost enough to send him back, cut Bellamy loose, storm the door and open it, together. Almost enough for him to doom them all to the bloody death surely awaiting their arrival. Almost. If only he’d just-

He doesn’t. He doesn’t register the shouts that follow him back towards the hall. He doesn’t turn back.

_This is for you, _he repeats, over and over until reality melts and the words feel foreign in his mind and on his tongue,  _for us._

John Murphy desperately clings to balance.

Bellamy Blake’s foot rests on the crate.

—

The bench is digging uncomfortably into his back, arm tossed over his eyes when someone calls his name a foot from where he’s laying.

“I wasn’t sleeping,” he blurts out, bolting upright into a sitting position.

It’s Abby, regarding him with an unamused expression that can only be read as the physical embodiment of  _Uh Huh_,  and in the most condescending tone possible.

He feels the ends of his lips tug upwards despite himself.

“Try not to kill this one,” he says, because if he doesn’t he’s scared he’s going to spill his guts to her right then and there,

_Please, please take care of him, please, I can’t lose him again—_

Instead, he presses the keys into her palm and gestures vaguely towards the door to his left.

She raises her eyebrow, fixing him with a look that he makes an effort to pointedly ignore. If she notices the light red smudges reflecting around the edges of silver, she doesn’t say anything.

Abby doesn’t hesitate going into the room. The lock clicks as she turns the key, just as loud as before. Maybe louder. She doesn’t seem to notice.

He almost envies her.

“I’ll be here if you need me,” he says, and in the same breath silently hopes that she won’t.

He breathes a sigh of something akin to relief when the door clicks back into place, solid and secure.

Bellamy’s incessant yelling ceases, if only for now.

The crate stills.

—

He’s slumped forward, pressing the heels of his palms against his eyes when he hears her shout.

_ “ John! I need you!” _

His legs move faster than his brain, jolting forward and practically throwing himself into the door, rushing down the narrow hall.

Panic grips his chest, heart pounding in his ears,

_Fuck. Fuck. Fuck._

He skirts to a stop at the foot of the small area Bellamy was confined to.

_Was._

The chains are empty, leaving nothing but dark red stains in their wake.

“ Son of a— “ He starts, panicked, when something firm hooks around his throat, pulling tight and cutting off his air flow before he can think twice.

Bellamy.

He’s pulled tight against his chest, thrashing proving to be useless as Bellamy tightens his hold. He chokes out a noise, desperate,

_ Please, Bellamy, I can’t let you do this, you don’t know what they’ll do to us, I can’t risk losing you  again — _

His vision starts to faze out around the edges, clinging to consciousness and desperately tugging at the arm curled around his throat.

Murphy’s grip loosens as his breathing falters, and he’s  _falling, falling, falling,_

_The crate begins to tip, and,_

“I’m sorry,” Murphy hears, as soft as the first time, pressed against the shell of his ear.

_Murphy hears the swing of the ax, the noose loosening before the pressure relieves entirely, and the last thing he remembers is Bellamy’s voice, the feeling of warmth sliding through his veins,  
_

_“I believe you, Murphy.”_

**Author's Note:**

> hhhhhhh on top of having no idea what to write here this is also the first fic i’ve ever written and published so. constructive criticism is welcome? 
> 
> to make it clear im gonna explain some parts of my thought process while writing this and what my intentions were real quick:
> 
> \- the end didn’t /actually/ happen. bellamy apologizing and in turn being understanding instead of, say, telling murphy he hates him or something of the sort is the equivalent of him cutting him down vs kicking the crate all over again.
> 
> \- honestly i suck at world building so the events leading up to this and reasons for murphy’s differentiating behavior from canon are up to you. i have a thousand different ideas and paths that could’ve put them here and not enough talent to write them all, let alone one. 
> 
> \- i was gonna write more up to the following episode(s) but couldn’t figure where a good stopping point would be so i just left it as is. in my mind they have a similar argument when they’re rescuing raven, they make up when they get to space, work through their trauma together and all that jazz, happily ever after the end :)
> 
> yea. that’s everything i think. comments are appreciated, even if it’s just a random string of letters or you telling me how awful my writing is. 
> 
> haha...... just kidding.... unless?


End file.
